


Sincerely,

by dvske



Series: Implicit [2]
Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Can't stop thinking about these two, Drabble, F/M, Fluff, Gentle musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:48:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4622475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvske/pseuds/dvske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows better than to write her love letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sincerely,

She hoards them. Envelopes stacked and bundled together with loosely tied thread. They beckon, little treasures peppering every inch of her apartment like autumn leaves scattered along the Promenade. Countless letters, each one unsealed and worn with months’ worth of repeated reading, intimate reading, that’s left her both full and aching. All the nights she’s spent lounging by lamplight, pouring over those letters with hints of amusement, hints of longing, in her eyes. Page upon page of messy scrawl that sing her praises, that consoles her on the bluest days, entertains on her brightest. The stories he spins, of the mundane, the fanciful. The wishes he writes with such enthusiasm, such ease, that for a moment they all seem attainable. All the world seems attainable.

_hey,_

And it’s the same greeting every time, always with the subtle loop and curl of the Y’s tail, always that purposeful lowercase H that seems so casual. So fitting.

_thinking of you again…_

Him and his thoughts, playing through her mind. And it’s as if he’s there, his arms wrapped around her shoulders, his lips nudging the back of her ear as he whispers sweet words steeped in adoration. Her fingers trace lines of faded ink as her face lights up with a smile, and she can see him now, see the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles back. There’s warmth in his words that persist even in distance.

And he knows better, he really should, than to write her love letters.

She never writes backs. Never can.

But she writes him love songs.

Tries.

For each letter, a melody takes root in her heart. For each page, she fills several more in hopes of matching the energy he sets in motion. False starts, half starts, scraps of lyrics crumpled and thrown away. The same scraps, later fished out and uncrumpled just to be reworked again. Her handwriting, looming and etched deep as she struggles to find the right words to convey all he makes her feel. Sappy things, rambling things, unfinished things. Yet endearing in intent, even if all she does it file them away in the end. A shoebox, with his name on it.

She’s thought of sending him a few, sharing them during his visits. But she gets stuck on the words. Stumbles through them. Gets flustered by them. Frustrated—and  _why_ , when she’s produced such profound works in the past? Why, when all her love is there, waiting to be translated into what she knows best? It results in nothing more than a slow beat, a low hum drifting through the evening hours as she tosses her notepad aside. That’s it, that’s all.

Oh, he makes it seem so easy, and she has to wonder how many drafts  _he’s_  discarded. How many pieces of himself has he hidden, crumpled and uncrumpled, self-conscious beginnings with no ends? How does he do it, charming her again and again, opening himself up again and again, without being deterred by her silence? Never deterred. Understanding, in that unspoken way of his.

He should know better, he should.

But she hoards and she writes (or tries) and she hums her tunes each time she loses herself in those letters. She hums tunes just a vibrant as the ones he makes with his pen. A duet, of sorts. For her strength is her voice.

And even if she can’t quite find the words, there’s music between them all the same.


End file.
